


Manifest

by cm (mumblemutter)



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-04
Updated: 2004-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-09 07:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/pseuds/cm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blood makes noise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Manifest

At first Chester thought that his pen had leaked, the blood that smeared across the poster was almost black against the glossy green paper. He frowned and leaned forward to touch the stain. His fingers came away wet and bright red. That was when Chester noticed it dripping from the edge of his shirt sleeves, and as he watched another drop held itself at the tip of his last finger before plopping down onto the table.

The small blonde girl that he was signing for gasped. "You're bleeding," she said.

"Yeah...sorry. I ruined your poster."

"Oh, it's okay. I don't mind, really." She snatched at the poster as if she was afraid he'd take it away from her. "You should see a doctor or something. Unless you um..." she lowered her voice and leaned closer to him, whispering conspiratorially. "I have a friend who like, cuts herself. I was doing it too for a while. It's cool. I won't tell anyone, I swear."

Chester gaped at her. She blushed furiously and looked as if she wanted to continue, but the security guard was waving her on and Chester didn't bother to hold her back. He pushed his sleeve back to peer at the dark wound on his wrist, and when he pressed his hand over it he realized that his other wrist was bleeding too. The blood welled, rich and red, through his fingers. He dropped his arms hastily under the table. The next person had appeared, staring at him expectantly with her CD in hand.

Chester said, "I sprained my arm. I don't think I can sign for you today." He raised his brow at the guard and he shuffled her away, much to her disappointed dismay. "Sorry," he said lamely to her back, grateful that he was the last in the row today and she'd have to leave the tent.

Brad looked over at him as the girl left. "Chester, are you okay?"

Chester raised his hands.

"Oh, what the fuck," Brad said.

"Yeah, I know." He got up from the chair and said, "I should go. I can't sign autographs like this." He put his hands inside his jeans pocket and left the tent as fast as he could, grateful that he'd chosen to wear the black today.

+

His bus was silent save for the soft hum of the refrigerator. Chester sat on the couch and examined the holes that went through his wrists, both bleeding copiously. They ached, but not as bad as they should for such deep wounds. When he pressed one finger directly onto his right wrist the pain increased slightly, but not by much. He could feel his pulse through the blood pumping out each time his heart beat.

He heard a soft exclamation, and looked up to see Brad standing in the doorway, his face turning pale. "Chester, what did you do," he said, walking over to kneel down in front of him.

"Wha?" Chester started. It took him a second to realize what Brad was getting at. "Nothing. This isn't self-inflicted."

Brad frowned, a little crease appearing between his eyes as he reached out to absently caress the inside of Chester's thigh. "Then. I don't understand."

"I'm not lying to you," Chester said exasperatedly. He raised both his hands and held them out to Brad.

Brad took them both in his own and turned them this way and that, ignoring the blood spilling onto his long pale fingers. "They go all the way through," he said in marvel. "I should call a doctor," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"But I feel fine. It doesn't hurt." Chester tried to pull away, but Brad refused to let go. The blood made his grip slippery and smeared a messy red stain over their hands. The smell of copper rose, sharp and bitter on Chester's tongue, and he tried not to curl up his lips at the taste of it. He repeated instead, "It doesn't hurt."

"How can it not hurt." Brad's face twisted doubtfully as he stared at Chester as if he could wrench the truth from him by willing it on him.

Chester finally managed to pull his arms away and said, "Oh for fuck's sake. Do I look as if I'm the type of guy that's going to poke a hole through his wrists?" He rolled his eyes at the continued expression of doubt on Brad's face. "Asshole."

"Sorry," Brad said, shrugging. "We should bandage you up at least. Don't want you bleeding all over the stage. Although we probably could do that if we'd been doing Ozzfest this year. I'm sure Ozzy would approve." He paused. "That is, if you're up to performing tonight."

"I'm fine, Brad. It doesn't hurt." Only it did. Not much, but there was a building ache in his wrists and tiny slivers of pain slid up his spine as he lost more blood.

Brad got the first aid kit after cleaning them both up with cloth and warm water. There was just enough white gauze to wrap thickly around both Chester's wrists. "Do you have gloves," Brad asked after he was done, stepping back to survey his work.

Chester nodded his head. "Yeah. Quite a few of them." He got his black fingerless gloves from the closet and put them on. They managed to cover most of the bandages and he pushed the small protruding ring of white down until they couldn't be seen. Good enough. He didn't look like an attempted suicide victim anymore.

+

"It's supposed to cause much pain to the sufferer. They say it's a sign of sorrow and humility, see." Mike's face swam over Chester, tight and concerned. Chester closed his eyes and sighed. He was lying on his bed, bandaged arms spread out to the sides. No was was supposed to find out, but Mike had caught him redressing his wounds after the show once, and after that he'd accidentally bled over Rob's shoulder and Rob of course had told Joe who'd told Dave, and now everyone knew.

"It's not that, Mike. Fuck, it's pretty much anything but that. Although," he snapped his eyes open once again and made a startled Mike rear back a little. "I always wanted to start my own religion. The Church of Chaz. I bet it'd be popular."

"More popular than Jesus," Joe cut in dryly. Joe was sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, watching everything with vague disinterest.

"You're not starting your own religion," Mike said.

"It'd be more practical to want Sainthood." That was Dave, who seemed amused by it all, along with Rob.

"That could work. The Patron Saint of Rock Stars and Lost Causes."

"There's already a Patron Saint of Lost Causes."

"Rock Stars then."

"The Patron Saint of Drunken Retards. You could be that," Joe said.

Rob scowled. "Do they have to be drunken retards? Can't they just be drunk?"

Mike sat down heavily on the bed and put his head in his hands. After a moment, he turned back to Chester. "Are you sure you're all right? You're not in dire pain or anything like that?"

He wasn't entirely okay, sometimes he felt tired and faint, and he was hungry all the time. "I'm fine."

"Oh," Mike sounded disappointed.

Chester raised his head. "If it helps, I'll try to pretend that I'm suffering grievously."

"No, no..." Mike said hastily. "I don't want that. It's just that it's all very..."

"Theatrical," said Joe.

Mike shot him a look. "I was going to say confusing."

Chester sagged back onto the mattress and covered his eyes with his hands. "No, no. Joe's honesty is refreshing. I'm a drama queen and this is all part of my dastardly plan to draw attention to myself."

"That's not what I meant."

"Whatever, dude." He was bored now, and wanted them all to go away. Except for Brad, who up until now hadn't said a word. But then Brad had been through all of this already.

"So I really am doing this to myself?"

"Well..."Mike said doubtfully. "It's possible. But no one knows exactly."

Chester sighed again, and noticed that the blood had soaked almost all the way through the bandages.

+

The wounds didn't affect him much, save for the minor inconvenience of having to spend the time bandaging his arms so he wouldn't bleed all over the place. Brad was fascinated by them though, he'd poke and prod while helping him to clean his arms and when Chester muttered a protest, would just apologize and keep right on doing so. Chester had gotten him a box of surgical gloves but Brad always forgot to wear them. He seemed to enjoy getting blood all over his hands a little too much. He was enjoying it all a little too much.

He liked to position Chester on the bed with his arms crossed over his head and fuck him that way, and whenever Chester dropped his hands Brad would grab his wrists and push them down again, his fingers not quite gripping hard enough to hurt but enough to keep them there unless Chester made a strong enough effort to move. Which he never did, most of the time, because Brad's high cheeked narrow-eyed focus made his head spin and his breath catch like it never had before.

Once, when he was jerking Brad off in the dressing room, the blood soaked through the bandage and dripped down his hand. "Fuck," Chester said, and made to get more bandages.

Brad hissed and guided his hand back impatiently. "Don't stop," he gasped through gritted teeth. His face was pale and he was almost shaking. When Chester leaned in to slide his fist down Brad's dick he groaned and almost slid down the wall. "Fuck, Chester." Chester wrapped one arm around Brad's neck and held him up as he jerked him off, slowly and almost carelessly. Brad came, all too soon, shuddering breathlessly and collapsing bonelessly in Chester's arms. Chester sighed and rubbed the come and blood on his hand into Brad's white shirt, sticky red that smeared all over the white material like an abstract painting. Later, when he was bending a listless and pliant Brad over the table, he tugged urgently on the bandage with his teeth until it gave way and shook his hand so the blood splattered all over them both.

Chester's skin was painfully alive wherever drops of blood had landed, and he felt hot and feverish as he slid his blood sheathed dick into Brad. Brad started shivering uncontrollably, his teeth chattering, and in the small part of Chester's brain that could still process thought, he knew that if someone were to walk in on them now they'd probably blink at the garish, blood-smeared image that they cut. He couldn't bring himself to care.

+

"Judas betrayed Jesus with a kiss," he said later, looping his arms around his knees and watching as the blood made little red trails down his legs.

"But I'm tired of kissing you," Brad murmured sleepily, scratching at the dried blood on his chest. "Besides, I'm Jewish."

"So was Judas, wasn't he?" Chester tugged at Brad, who laughed softly and wrapped himself tiredly around his waist.


End file.
